


Even Babies Can Do It

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: Sleeping wasn’t always hard.Then came Freelancer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone. I'm alive. I've been having a rough time of it lately, so my output has slowed quite a bit. Sorry bout that. Here's a quick piece.

Sleeping is hard.

It shouldn’t be, Wash thinks, turning over in his bed for the third time in fifteen minutes. Babies are able to manage it and they can’t even understand object permanence. It should be easy, as simple as closing your eyes. Child’s play. 

It isn’t. Sleeping isn’t easy. It hasn’t been since Freelancer, since a chip was placed in Wash’s brain to scramble what was him and what was Leonard Church, then dug out. A lot of things haven’t been easy since then, Wash has found, from walking a block without looking over his shoulder to leaving his house without a gun strapped to his side. Sleeping is just the most annoying.

Wash used to be great at sleeping. Fantastic at drifting off anywhere at anytime. Hell, it was what he was known for in his unit: David, the living sloth. Watch him pass out on top of a tank like it’s a luxury bed. He had the best dreams too, dreams of back home, of corns fields, and trees to hide in and sisters to watch over. The kind of dreams men in foxholes would die for.

Wash has no such dreams anymore. They died with David. Now, when he gets sleep, it’s better to hope not to dream at all. Not unless he wants to be haunted by blonde bangs and a soft smile.

_ I hate goodbyes. _

“Dad!” Wash opens his eyes and looks at the door. Junior is standing in the doorway, backpack over his shoulder, mandibles curled. Probably just got back from school. Wash resists the urge to groan: that means he’s been lying here not sleeping for almost a whole hour. “Uncle Wash is angsting again!”

“I am not-” Wash starts grumbling into his pillow.

“What kind of angsting?” That’s Tucker. Back from heading out for groceries then. Wash hopes he remember to buy a vegetable. Or at least, one that isn’t frozen.  

“I don’t know.” Junior peaks in his head. “Uncle Wash what you angsting about?” 

“I am not angsting.”

“He’s in denial!” Junior calls. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a magazine before chucking it at Wash. Wash looks at it. School paper. Junior doesn’t work on it, but the girl who does is a spitfire, which means it’s doubtlessly entertaining. Often because of her profiles on the school board who Wash despises. “Got you the news. I’m off to do homework. Good luck with your angst.”

“Thanks Junior,” Wash says. He’s so much like his father some days, to the point where the resemblance is almost uncanny. Even as a giant alien teenager, he strikes Tucker’s tone spot on in both his own language and English. 

Wash reaches for the paper. He’s skimming an article on how the Principle of the middle school hates 2% milk when Tucker appears in the doorframe. He looks ridiculous as usual, his flare for over the top dramatic t-shirts an crucial component of his civilian life. Wash reads the text. “Stud muffin.” Not the worst in his collection but in the bottom five. 

“Heard you were angsting.” He closes the door behind him as he steps inside.

“Junior was being dramatic. I was just trying to take a nap.”

“Which means you were absolutely angsting.” Tucker walks over and flops next to Wash on the bed in one smooth movement. It’s almost graceful. He puts his hands behind his head and looks at Wash. “Not able to sleep again?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“The dark circles under your eyes give it away. You’re lucky you’re so charming and handsome; the living zombie look in your eyes doesn’t suit you.”

“I thought you said it was getting better.”

“Yeah. You’ve gone from living corpse to living zombie. Improvement.”

“Those are the same thing!” The squeaky voice comes out then. Tucker it too used to it because he just rolls his eyes.

“Nah. Different. Ask Grif; he’s genre savvy. And right on this one, even if he’s a Red.”   

“Why am I dating you again?”

“Because I’m a great fuck.”

Wash promptly throws a pillow at him. 

“Harsh,” Tucker says once he’s recovered from getting a pillow to the face. He throws his arm over Wash’s torso, and practically snuggles. One of the weirdest things to figure out when they started sleeping together was how big on cuddling Tucker was. “Still wanna take a nap?”

“Don’t know.”

“Too bad, cus I do and you’re a good heat source.” Tucker buries his face into Wash’s back. “If anyone calls and tries to wake us up, tell them we’re having really hot sex.”

“Tucker-”

“Kinky shit, Wash. Emphasis it’s kinky shit. Get really detailed for the Reds. I’m talking full on narration, Wash. They’ll leave us be for hours.”

Wash can’t help but smile, relaxing a fraction. “I could just groan into the phone instead. That would work.”

“This is why I like you. Genius level thinking,” Tucker mummers into his shirt, voice laced with sleep. His grip on Wash tightens, just enough to be a comforting weight. The heat on Wash’s back becomes a solid presence and forced to lie still, Wash’s mind wanders. 

When he drifts off to sleep fifteen minutes later, it’s to the sound of Tucker snoring. 


End file.
